


And I Hope That You Remember Me

by Lothiriel84



Series: I See Fire [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Family, Friendship, Gen, Memory Loss, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 12:46:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lothiriel84/pseuds/Lothiriel84
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apparently his name was Sherlock Holmes, and he had at least one brother. That was very, very interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Who Am I?

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers up to 3x03. The title is a reference to the song _I See Fire_ by Ed Sheeran.

His mind floated at the edge of consciousness just for a moment. “Mr Holmes, can you hear me?” someone said, and then he sank into oblivion once more.

When he finally opened his eyes there was an elderly couple sitting next to his hospital bed; as a matter of fact, he had deduced he was in hospital even before he was fully awake.

A man and a woman in their seventies. Both of them anxiously looking at him, obviously worried over his health conditions. Parents, clearly.

“Mother?” he tried gingerly, and the woman took his hand in her own.

“Sherlock, my dear boy – how are you feeling?”

So that was his name. Sherlock. Interesting.

“My head, it hurts like hell.”

“Suspect hit you, that’s what Mycroft said. If I ever lay my hands on the wretch –”

“We shouldn’t upset him, darling,” the man chided her gently, and she promptly snapped her mouth shut.

His last coherent thought before sleep claimed him again was for this mysterious Mycroft person. From the way the woman had uttered the name he could easily deduce it was another of her sons, and therefore his own brother.

Apparently his name was Sherlock Holmes, and he had at least one brother. That was very, very interesting.

 

* * *

 

More visitors followed. Now was the turn of a Scotland Yard man, along with a former army doctor and his wife.

“I’m glad to see you awake, mate. You had all of us holding our breath at the Yard.”

“Did you really?” he muttered, fishing for further information.

“You bet. And I had to take John home myself, the good doctor had worked himself into such a state.”

“I, well, I was worried,” the man named John cut in defensively. A close friend, then. And, from the faded stain on his shirt, he was father to an infant too.

“How’s the baby, John?” Sherlock prompted nonchalantly, and was rewarded with a smile.

“She’s fine, thank you. Molly is babysitting for us, Mary and I just couldn’t wait to see you.”

“Hm. You should go back to her then.”

“Don’t you do anything stupid, understood?”

“Understood,” he agreed, though he hadn’t the faintest idea what they were talking about.

John’s wife kissed him lightly on the cheek, then the three of them slipped out of the room. A pity that nobody had thought to mention the name of the Scotland Yard man – a detective inspector, if he wasn’t very much mistaken.

Well, he needed to process the information now. He closed his eyes and took a walk along the empty corridors of his mind.

 

* * *

 

An elderly woman and a nervous female doctor came next. No, not a doctor; something related though, a forensic technician perhaps. He took a good look at her hands – which she kept twisting for some reason – and found the answer written in the traces of old scars.

Pathologist it was, then.

“Oh, Sherlock, we’ve been so worried about you,” the lady said plaintively. “Why do you always have to put your life on the line?”

“Well, apparently I’m still alive.”

“Poor John was so upset, you know?”

“Come on, Mrs Hudson,” the younger woman murmured soothingly, “I’m sure that Sherlock didn’t do it on purpose.”

“I should hope so, Molly dear. That doesn’t make it any easier for us all, does it?”

He took a deep breath, then made eye contact with the pathologist. It was as clear as day that she had a thing for him, and that only meant she would be more compliant to his request.

“Molly, I’m really tired now. Would you be so kind to take Mrs Hudson back to her flat?”

“Of course. We’ll see you in a few days, I hope.”

She didn’t kiss him goodbye, but he could tell that she really wanted too.

 

* * *

 

He had just finished inspecting the contents of his wallet and mobile phone when a self-important bloke wearing an expensive suit walked in.

“Hello, brother dear,” the man greeted him, and he could detect a condescending note about his tone.

“Mycroft,” he acknowledged him, instantly perceiving that his sibling was far more observant than the whole lot of friends and family he’d met so far.

“How are we feeling today?”

“Definitely better. I should be discharged soon.”

“Back to Baker Street then? Mrs Hudson will be relieved, it would appear that she doesn’t know what to do with herself without you around.”

He shrugged noncommittally. “You know Mrs Hudson.”

“I do,” Mycroft said very slowly. “I’m wondering if you do though.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not being your usual self, Sherlock. And while you’re smart enough to fool your friends, I’m no goldfish myself.”

They stared at each other for a silent moment. “Nonsense. A blow to my head is irrelevant to my mental skills.”

“To your deductive skills, maybe. What about your memory?”

“I could recite you all the elements of the periodic table, if you want me to.”

His brother turned his attention to the handle of his umbrella. “I see. What about your personal memories?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes, I live at 221B Baker Street. I’m a consulting detective – the one and only consulting detective, as a matter of fact. I solve cases, and my friend John blogs about it. Or at least he used too, since he recently got married and had a child. Mrs Hudson is my landlady, while Molly is a pathologist who occasionally helps me with my investigations. And the Detective Inspector – his name eludes me at the moment – has consulted me on many a case, albeit reluctantly. You’re my brother Mycroft, you have a power complex and clearly enjoy ruling our country in your spare time. Our parents are far too ordinary for either of our likings, but then you can’t always get what you wish for.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly. “Good. Your deductive skills aren’t failing you.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Any fool could research you and come pretty much to the same conclusions. Those aren’t actual memories, just good deductions.”

“Oh, please.”

“Prove it, little brother. Do you remember Redbeard?”

Silence fell as he desperately racked his brain for a logical answer. “A pirate?” he shrugged at last, and he knew he had lost.

A sigh fell from his brother’s lips. “You’ve no idea who you are, have you?”


	2. I Am Many Things To Many People

He stayed at his parents’ for a week after he was discharged. The way his mother kept fussing over him was quite unnerving, but he endured the pain of it because she was a reliable source of information about his past.

“You and your brother have always been different,” she told him over a cup of tea. “That’s why I decided to home-school the both of you. Other children wouldn’t understand, and I didn’t want my boys to be bullied or laughed at.”

“Did you really write this book?” he demanded, holding up a copy of _The Dynamics of Combustion_.

“Of course I did. Pure mathematics is, in its way, the poetry of logical ideas.”

“You’re quoting Albert Einstein now.”

“I am. Though he also said that not everything that counts can be counted, and not everything that can be counted counts.”

“Meaning?”

His mother shrugged. “Mycroft has always despised sentiment, and spent his youth trying to pass his beliefs on to you. Emotions can be dangerous, I give you that – but there’s no point in avoiding them completely.”

“Either way, it would appear that I haven’t quite succeeded in doing so, since I have at least a few selected friends I presume I care for.”

“I know. And I’m very proud of you, Sherlock.”

Sensing an impending display of affection on his mother’s part, he quickly excused himself and sneaked out of the back door for a much needed cigarette.

 

* * *

 

Since the doctors seemed to think that his usual routine could help him get his memory back, his brother had arranged for his PA to escort him on a crime scene.

“Just because I don’t remember who I am, doesn’t mean I need a handler,” he stated pointedly at the woman that was sitting beside him in a car with tinted windows.

“You could have used one even when you were still yourself.”

That had him smiling. “I think I like you. What’s your name?”

“Anthea.”

“No way.”

That was when she finally looked up from her phone and found a smile of her own. “It’s Andrea, actually. I would appreciate if you kept it to yourself though.”

“Scout’s honour.”

Andrea went back to typing on her phone, and he checked his own for incoming texts.

 

* * *

 

It took him approximately five minutes to expose the murderer, and her motives too.

“Boring,” he said out aloud. “Mycroft doesn’t have the slightest idea how to properly rate a case.”

“Well, you can’t order murders like you order lunch,” the Scotland Yard man pointed out in the down-to-earth manner that was peculiar to him.

“I suppose you’re right, hum, Inspector.”

“It’s Lestrade, you know. Greg Lestrade, though you never remember my first name anyway.”

“That’s how we met, isn’t it? Solving crimes?”

Lestrade hesitated for a moment. “Officially, yes.”

“What about unofficially then?”

“Drug bust. Cocaine, if I’m not mistaken.”

He raised a questioning eyebrow. “Seriously? Did you arrest me?”

“Handed you back to your brother. What he’s done after that, I’m afraid it’s something between you and him.”

“I see. Didn’t want his name to be dragged through the mud, did he?”

“As a matter of fact, I think he genuinely cares for you. It just isn’t like him to admit it.”

With that DI Lestrade strolled away, leaving a bemused Sherlock to process the unexpected bit of information.

 

* * *

 

Spending a day at John and Mary’s was actually nicer than he’d expected. His friend was clearly delighted at the idea of having him around, and his wife looked definitely pleased too.

She was quite an extraordinary woman, he had to admit – quite like him in ways he couldn’t fully pinpoint yet.

“So, I am your best friend then?” he felt the need to clarify.

“Of course you are, you idiot. I shot a man to save your life, and you did the same to the worm that was threatening to ruin mine. Isn’t that proof enough?”

A warm smile tugged at his lips. “I should say it is.”

“Remember what you told me once? _Your best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high._ ”

“Did I really? Well, that’s not much of a surprise, given Lestrade’s account of my fondness for class A drugs.”

“If you ever get anywhere near that stuff again, I’ll shoot you myself.”

“Hey, that’s my job,” Mary cut in wryly, and he eyed her in amusement.

“Meaning that you’ve actually shot me? Now that’s intriguing.”

“Long story,” she said with a shrug. “I did my best to ensure your survival though.”

“You do have a thing for sociopaths, John,” he replied in amusement.

His friend pursed his lips for a brief moment, then shrugged his shoulders. “Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”

 

* * *

 

Back to Baker Street at last. He couldn’t say he recalled anything specific about his flat, but the whole place felt oddly familiar somehow.

As did his violin, he thought fondly as he ran his fingers over its polished surface.

When Mrs Hudson came upstairs bringing his tea he was playing an impromptu melody, relishing the soothing effect music seemed to have on his mind.

“This is beautiful, Sherlock. It’s a bit like the waltz you composed for John and Mary’s wedding, isn’t it?”

“It could be. I can’t say I remember it.”

He ignored the pitiful glance that Mrs Hudson shot in his direction, and turned his full attention to his violin again.

 

* * *

 

Anthea – Andrea, actually – had picked him up again, escorting him to the morgue this time.

Thankfully the woman had the sense to let him walk inside alone, sensing that her presence would fluster the already jittery pathologist. Molly was smarter than many, but he still wished that her nerves wouldn’t get the better of her half the time.

“Strangled?” he muttered by way of a greeting, turning a clinical eye over the body resting on the slab.

“Definitely. Can you see the bruises there?”

“Tiny fingers. Must have been a woman, or a teenager. Interesting.”

“It is, isn’t it?” she agreed cheerfully, and he paused to take a closer look at her.

“Why are you in love with me? By all accounts, I’m not exactly a nice man.”

She bit her lip and averted her gaze. “I suppose you’re not. You’ve been quite rude to me on a number of occasions.”

“I don’t understand. You’re a smart woman, you could do better than me.”

“I know. It’s just – I care about you, that’s all.”

He furrowed his brow. “Thank you, I guess?”

Molly shook her head gently, then stood on her tiptoes and planted a chaste kiss on his cheek.

“You’re a better man than you think you are, Sherlock,” she murmured softly before hastily pulling away.


	3. But In The End I'm Just Your Brother

Kidnapped by his own brother. That was just ridiculous.

He might have misjudged the situation when a stranger had called him in the middle of the night; but then he didn’t really have anything to go by, just a couple of words uttered in an unmistakable Irish accent – _‘Miss me?’_

“Who was that?” he asked in frustration, but his brother refused to heed him. Mycroft was too busy issuing orders over the phone, so he decided he might as well grab the chance to snoop about his sibling’s place.

Of course he unerringly located his brother’s bedroom, carefully shut the door behind him as he took in every possible detail. Mycroft seemed to lead a fairly solitary life, if his belongings were anything to go by.

Sherlock frowned. He couldn’t decide whether his big brother was lonely, and that seemingly insignificant piece of information felt vitally important all of a sudden.

Gingerly he picked the lock of the writing desk, leaning forward to inspect the contents of the drawers. Nothing interesting in there, and he was about to put everything back into place when a photograph slipped out of a copy of George Orwell’s _1984_.

It was the picture of a good-looking young man, presumably a freshman at university. There was no name behind it, just a date – October 1984 – penned in Mycroft’s accurate handwriting.

He was pretty sure he’d seen that photograph before; he was struggling so hard to grasp the elusive memory that he only noticed the click of the door when it was too late.

“What are you doing here?” his brother demanded coldly, and that was when the mist in his brain finally gave way. This was a picture of Martin – Mycroft’s first (and last) boyfriend, who had tragically died of heart failure only a year later.

Sherlock had been just a kid at the time, and the sight of his brother in tears had probably been the most shocking experience of his childhood. His insufferable, smug, beloved big brother. The one who always told him that caring was not an advantage, because he didn’t want his little brother to suffer the way he had.

“You do have a heart after all, don’t you?”

Mycroft scoffed at the implication. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

A shadow of pain crossed his features for a fleeting moment, only to be replaced by his usual cynical attitude. However, Sherlock had noticed it, and that was enough to prompt him to do something that was very uncharacteristic to the both of them.

Slowly he stepped closer to his brother, tentatively wrapped an arm around his back. Mycroft immediately stiffened, until he willed the tension away from his body and eventually relaxed into the somewhat awkward embrace.

“Mummy would die of happiness if she could see us now,” his brother remarked dryly as he finally pulled back.

Sherlock offered him a noncommittal shrug. “She gets awfully sentimental at times.”

“Well, back to business now. We have a consulting criminal to hunt down.”

“Oh, yeah. What was his name again?”

“Jim Moriarty. See if you can remember about him as well, will you?”

Snatches of memories flickered about his mind palace, and for the first time in weeks he was confident he would get all of them back very soon.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for any inaccuracies about my fic. I'm not a doctor, so that you know.


End file.
